


Shield of Oak

by Chrononautical



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gift Giving, Matchmaking, Multi, Politician Thorin Oakenshield
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 16:20:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17646146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrononautical/pseuds/Chrononautical
Summary: Despite his brand new courtship with Ori, Dwalin escorts Bilbo back to the Shire. Someone has to look after the hobbit and keep Thorin from worrying. Not that Thorin is likely to stop. The king insists on breaking his own heart by letting the hobbit leave. Bilbo isn't exactly open an honest about his feelings, either.Then, as they pass into the west, the hobbit decides to go looking for the oaken shield. After that, everything changes.





	Shield of Oak

**Author's Note:**

> So I said to myself, be the knitted axes you want to see in the world. But y'all: the point of view of a taciturn warrior is rather different from the wonderfully florid Bilbo. Enjoy!

Thorin was making a mistake. As his best friend, Dwalin told him so. Balin, who liked to think of himself as Thorin’s best friend, also told him so. Letting the hobbit go would only break his heart. 

“What would you have me do?” the king demanded. “I cannot keep him prisoner.” 

Which was a fair point, if a stupid one. The hobbit wanted to stay. Obviously. Who wouldn’t want to be in Erebor with Thorin Oakenshield on the throne? Granted, it went wrong the first time. Thorin had—it went wrong. But that was done. The hobbit saved them. Now, things would be the way Dwalin always knew they could. Thorin ruled justly and with strength. Erebor would grow into a safe, prosperous place for their people to live. All who might cheat dwarves or take advantage of the poor would be kept at bay. The dwarves were poor no more. 

Naturally the hobbit wanted to see that. Anyone would want to witness the rise of a great kingdom, seated at the right hand of its king. 

“At least I have the two of you.” Thorin smiled, but it was a false thing. His eyes wandered westward. “Never was a king more gifted with honest, trustworthy advisors. We need no hobbit.”

Dwalin didn’t sigh. He didn’t frown. That was what made him Thorin’s best friend. Balin did both. 

“You haven’t got me,” Dwalin said. “Not for a few months. Maybe a year. I’m seeing the burglar home.” 

For the first time since the true retaking of Erebor, Dwalin saw Thorin’s real smile. Gripping him by both arms, Thorin grinned. Then he pounded his skull against Dwalin’s with all the joy and camaraderie of a battle survived. Slowly, the king mastered himself. The earnest grin shifted into something more regal, dignified, befitting of a politician. But Dwalin could still see the joy in his eyes. Almost made leaving the mountain to trudge through the wild for a whole nother year worth it. 

Doing Thorin a favor was often like that. 

“Thank you, my friend,” the king said.

“Ach, he’s only dodging the real work.” Balin waved a hand dismissively, but winked at his brother. “By the time he comes back here, we’ll have the kingdom running at such a pace you won’t need a war advisor.” 

Thorin laughed. It was his real laugh. He would be alright. Even without the hobbit. Dwalin would sacrifice a lot more than a year of his life to ensure that. 

He probably was. 

Leaving his royal audience, the warrior strode purposefully to the once-great library of Erebor. It was a ruin. Dwarves liked to decorate the covers of books with gold leaf and precious jewels. Dragons liked to rip things apart to get at the valuable bits. There were stone tablets, of course. And those clay stamps scribes used. Apparently, some of the books were even salvageable. Or legible enough to be transcribed into a new copy. Or something. Dwalin didn’t know much about it. He’d have to learn. When he got back. If there was time. 

Ori was working at a well-lit table. That seemed to involve soaking paper in a solution that looked like water. Somehow, it didn’t destroy the paper. It probably wasn’t water. 

Ori’s nose scrunched up a bit, and he had the little line on his forehead. It always appeared when the scribe concentrated. One of his braids dangled just above the liquid in the basin. Dwalin watched the bead rise as Ori did, hanging the paper on a sort of clothesline next to his desk. 

The bead was gold. Everyone had more finery now that Erebor was retaken. Still, Dwalin thought a different bead might suit him better. A sapphire of Durin’s Kin. If he ever got a chance to offer it. 

The warrior stepped forward. 

Turning in surprise, Ori greeted him. “Mister Dwalin! How very nice to see you! What brings you to the library?” 

“I depart come morning.” There was no sense in mincing words. “I go with Prince Kili’s entourage to bring the news of our victory to the Blue Mountains and to escort the Lady Dis home.” 

“Oh!” Something behind the scribe’s eyes shifted a bit. Regret? Dwalin was no good at subtle. “Well, be safe. I hope your road is easier than ours was coming here!” 

“Aye.” Uncertain of his reception, Dwalin stepped forward again. After setting his offering on the desk, he retreated with a quick, tactical backstep. The inkwell was only quartz, but the craftsmanship was Ereborian. Nothing too expensive or weighty for a first gift, just something practical, useful, and beautiful. It shimmered like a diamond in the golden light, but Ori was a dwarf of discerning tastes. Probably wouldn’t want it. Stupid gift. Worse, Dwalin wasted a month choosing it. Now, he had no time to try again before leaving. 

“Something to remember me by.” 

Somehow, Dwalin always forgot that Ori was young. Then he would smile in his guileless way or turn his head just so and his innocence would stab Dwalin through the lungs. Ori deserved so much better than a grizzled old dwarf who failed as often as he succeeded. The scribe’s eyes went wide with wonder, and he looked like a lad seeing fireworks for the first time. “Thank you, Mister Dwalin. It’s beautiful.” 

Unwanted red flushed over Dwalin’s face. He probably looked like a lad as well. A lad giving a gift for the first time, forgetting all his manners. “Glad you like it. I’ll—be back. And I’ll think of you. On the road.” 

Ori blinked. His smile was slow and sure. As well it might be. The scribe was a great beauty, after all. Likely, half the dwarves in Erebor would be giving him gifts before Dwalin returned. Accepting the inkwell was probably only friendship, not encouragement. 

Stepping around his desk, Ori said, “Then I’ll give you something to think about.” No more. He put a hand on Dwalin’s bicep. He craned his neck upward. Just a little. Dwalin could have bent forward. Should have. Too slow. Too stupid to believe what was happening. The kiss was short. Sweet. Just Ori’s lips brushing lightly against Dwalin’s. No more. 

A kiss. 

After only one gift. 

Dwalin had a lot of treasure. He could give it to Ori. All of it. But Ori had the same amount of treasure. So that wouldn’t work. Probably. Might be worth trying. 

Stumbling around in a daze for the rest of the day was understandable enough after getting a kiss. Still, Dwalin managed to snap out of it in time to spy on Thorin’s private goodbye with Bilbo. 

Really, he caught Fili and Kili spying and sent them off. Staying to listen himself was only practical. A good warrior needed to know the lay of the land. 

“If you only remain in Erebor,” Thorin said, “I will give you any reward, any boon, any position you request.” It was not like a king to beg, but it was the king doing the begging. His voice had the persuasive quality that Dwalin associated with political negotiations. He did not speak of love. 

“Oh, Thorin,” Bilbo said bracingly, “It is so very kind of you to invite me to remain. However, I do believe it is time for me to be going. This trip of Kili’s is most convenient.” 

Dwalin didn’t know the hobbit as well as Thorin. One year’s acquaintance was not the same as a lifetime. But he thought Bilbo sounded as false as the king. Both of them were letting the important things go unsaid. 

“It can be delayed,” Thorin said. It couldn’t be. The envoy to the Blue Mountains should have left a month ago. Would have, if it had not always been the hobbit’s intention to leave with them. 

“Come now.” Bilbo’s voice was a blunt dagger, wielded defensively. “We are both adults, Thorin. Let us part in friendship.” 

To his credit, Thorin did not give up easily. “If you will not stay for riches, stay for my people. I do not know the source of my recovery. Gandalf claims that sending so much gold to the Iron Hills, Dale, and Mirkwood lessens the power of the hoard. I am unsure. Stay. You are the only one trustworthy enough to act against me, if I should fall once more.” 

Dwalin wished he could see the hobbit’s face. It was a long time before the burglar spoke. Dwalin knew he had to be considering a change in plans. That silver tongue made Thorin the most dangerous dwarf alive. Yet Bilbo Baggins was not easily manipulated. In that, they were well matched. 

“You are Thorin Oakenshield,” the hobbit said firmly. “The challenge you faced upon reclaiming the mountain was the greatest of your life, but you surmounted it. You alone. All I did was give you time. Even so, anyone might need a reminder, now and again, that there are good things in this world beyond the gleam of gold. So I will give you this.” 

“Your acorn?” 

“Plant it. Watch it grow. Remember that life is always more important than treasure.” At last, the hobbit sounded sincere. 

“I will.” For a moment, Thorin sounded the same. Then his voice regained its cajoling quality. “But you must come back to see it, one day. To keep me to my promise.” 

“Alright.” Bilbo now seemed slightly congested. “One day.” 

They were quiet for almost two minutes before the hobbit came bustling out of the room. Fussing with his handkerchief, Bilbo bid Thorin farewell over his shoulder. Hoping that the idiot took a chance and kissed the hobbit was too much. Long years of poverty taught the king caution. Dwalin didn’t know how to teach his friend anything else. 

Kili, his elf, and twenty soldiers were waiting for Bilbo and Dwalin at the great gate. Their ponies were stomping and prancing impatiently. Soldiers who couldn’t control their mounts weren’t worth much. Dwalin tried not to notice that the elf’s stallion waited as placidly as an unbroken vein of crystal. 

Instead, he helped Bilbo mount his pony. Saw that the hobbit’s saddle straps and packs were secure. Double checked the pony’s eyes and teeth to make sure it wouldn’t throw an unfamiliar rider. Suddenly, there was a sound of running boots approaching from behind. Dwalin knew the cadence well enough, after a year in the wild fleeing from orcs. 

Ori grinned up at him, guileless and happy. Reflexively returning the grin was the only option. If Ori asked him to stay, Dwalin would have to frown. Borrowing trouble was stupid, though. Ori was smiling, so Dwalin smiled. Simple enough. 

“Glad I caught you, Mister Dwalin!”

“Aye.” Dwalin let his grin turn into a smirk. “You’ve caught me well enough.” 

Ori’s giggle had a hint of something nervous in it. Young as he was, the scribe wasn’t a giggler. “I have my beautiful inkwell,” he said. “Which I love. I will look at it, and think of you while you are away.” 

Dwalin couldn’t breathe. He had to say something back. To swear all of his days on the road would be spent in contemplative waiting. Vowing he would not look upon another would be a good start. Promising himself might be better. He just had to say something. Anything. But he couldn’t breathe. 

“So, I thought it might be nice if you had something as well. Something you could hold in your hand, when you think of me. If you think of me.” 

“I will think of nothing else,” Dwalin swore.

Ori’s grin grew. The parcel he pulled from the pouch at his waist could only be a dagger. What other gift would one give a warrior? Even so, Dwalin unwrapped it with care. Opening it revealed a sheath crusted with many jewels that encased bright steel. The dagger was perfectly balanced, of Ereborian make. That was not what drew Dwalin’s eye. Around the hilt were carefully inscribed runes of protection. Upon the pommel was Dwalin’s name. 

“You wrote these yourself?” 

“Aye.” No diamond was ever as bright as the sparkle in the scribe’s eye. “Finding a smith to do the work in the middle of the night wasn’t easy, but when he heard it was for the hero of Ravenhill, he could hardly decline.” 

“I will carry it with honor.” 

Happily, Ori had already established the best mode of thanking a suitor for a gift. Sliding a hand around the back of the scribe’s neck, Dwalin pulled him in for a kiss. Nothing in the world compared to the taste of those lips. Except maybe the wanting step that Ori took toward Dwalin when they parted. Ori did not ask him to stay, however. Dwalin had a duty. Ori would not ask him to forgo it. 

Dwalin never knew it was possible to love someone so much. 

The journey west was easier than their eastward flight. Azog was not chasing them. Their numbers were greater, though less noble. Bilbo was now an experienced campaigner, not a complaining sack of potatoes. Even all of that together did not explain it. Going west felt like walking downhill. 

“I did not know you and Ori were sweethearts.” Bilbo was worse than Balin when he was nosing around for gossip. They had a campfire. Good food. Nothing was trying to kill them. They ought to sit in silence and enjoy it.

Because Dwalin was a compassionate soul, he only grunted. He did not say, “No more than you and Thorin.” For truly, Dwalin’s luck was much better than Thorin’s. As far as the warrior knew, Bilbo did not offer Thorin a kiss when the king gave him the mithril armor. Thorin did not take one along with the acorn, either. Now, the two of them were parted. Possibly for good. 

“As his friend, I should like to know your intentions.” Bilbo had a jovial smile. Clearly, he was not serious. Still, Dwalin felt compelled to answer.

“Honorable,” the warrior grunted. “If he’ll have me.”

Bilbo raised an eyebrow archly. “Then you intend to marry?”

Dwalin’s whole face went hot. Even his neck felt like a blazing coal. “Bad luck to say so this early.” 

“So you don’t want to marry him?” Oh, the hobbit knew how to tease! “I suppose that the two of you would draw a great deal of speculation as a couple. They say opposites attract, but you are very different.” 

Dwalin would not dignify that with a response. Except. 

The sons of Fundin proved their loyalty to Thorin Oakenshield before the very gates of Khazad-dum. Through river flood and dragon fire, they followed him: loyal to the last. Yet such a thing could only be true if it was proved in every case. The torturers of Mordor could not have drawn a confession from Dwalin, but if it would encourage the hobbit to share a confidence, his duty was clear. 

“Fine, yes. I want—He’s funny, and brave, and far too smart for the likes of me. But. I’ve got the house of Durin. That’s worth something to a dwarf of his line. He might wait. For that.”

Bilbo’s head jerked to the side as suddenly as a rabbit scenting a predator. “You—you think Ori is too good for you?”

Since that was obvious, Dwalin didn’t take the bait. “As you are too good for Thorin.”

“What?!” Leaping to his feet, the hobbit began pacing back and forth before the fire. Drawing attention from their fellows was wise. Dwalin would not force him to gossip before so many eyes. 

He didn’t drop the subject, though. “It is fact. Some of us have seen too much, done too much, to be worth much. Thorin knows it. So do I. Doesn’t stop us wanting. Doesn’t stop us trying.”

Bilbo sat back on his little log-stool. In a low, furious voice he said, “Thorin doesn’t want me, Dwalin. He didn’t even want me to stay in the mountain. It was only appearing to ask that was important. You should have heard his voice.” 

“I did. I have.” Dragons and orcs were easier than discussions, on the whole. Talking felt almost like a betrayal, even when it was the opposite. “It’s hard to ask. When you’re the less-deserving. At least Thorin’s used to it. Asking for things he won’t be given. Maybe too used to it.” 

Dwalin ran out of words then. He wanted to talk about the long road traveled in silence, even with Ori so close. He should have mentioned the month long search for a gift that might make his suit acceptable. Surely there was something he could confess to make Bilbo understand, but he didn’t know how to say it. Unlike his brother and his king, Dwalin never knew what to say. 

So Bilbo changed the subject. Words were the hobbit’s weapon, and he could fence with the best. Dwalin clearly wasn’t that. 

“We shall simply have to agree to disagree about whether or not Thorin was merely being polite inviting me to stay. However, I will do no such thing with respect to Ori. I have seen the way my friend looks at you, Dwalin. I believe you have a very good chance there, once you return to the mountain.”

“He’d be stupid to wait for me.” Dwalin took out his new dagger, inspecting the runes. “He’ll get other offers. Lots of them. I won’t be there to counteroffer.” 

A companionable hand landed on Dwalin’s shoulder. Not as heavy as a dwarven hand, but the heart behind it was the truest Dwalin knew. “You, Dwalin son of Fundin, are the noblest fellow of my acquaintance, and I am privileged to know some very noble dwarves, after all. Anyone who would not wait for you to do your duty would not deserve your heart. Fortunately, I think Ori is a very deserving dwarf indeed.” 

As their campfire crackled with comforting warmth, driving away the chill of early spring, Dwalin almost believed him. 

It was a pleasant trip, comparatively.

Even Mirkwood was less murky. Dwalin was no fan of trees, but he could tell the difference. It was not dark in daylight. The dwarves did not feel the same disorientation they once did. Their ponies did not try to wander off the path. Tauriel was a good guide, but that alone did not explain the difference. Maybe the attitude of its king did. Thranduil welcomed the travelers into his palace and feasted them for three days. Beyond that, replenishing their supplies might have been an insult. They were hardly starving or penniless this time around. 

“You know, Mister Baggins,” the elf drawled with regal amusement, “If you wish to stay in the north without being surrounded by uncouth dwarves, you are always welcome in the Greenwood.” 

“If he were staying, he’d stay at the Lonely Mountain.” On behalf of his king, Dwalin couldn’t let such a sentiment go unchallenged. 

“Obviously the mountain must remain lonely.” Thranduil laughed. “Thorin Oakenshield cannot have everything he wants.” 

As it happened, Dwalin was very good at politics. He did not plant his ax in the center of the elf’s ridiculous crown. 

“Stay in the Greenwood, Bilbo Baggins,” the king coaxed. “Once you know our dances, we shall invite the King Under the Mountain to see how happy you are to be rid of him. Your Shire is too far off to do the same.” 

“Thank you, your majesty,” Bilbo said, “But it is time I was getting home.” 

So Dwalin didn’t have to kill any elves, at least. That was convenient. Unfortunately, despite its ease, the journey was a long one. Weeks stretched into a month as they finally reached the Misty Mountains. 

Bilbo was Bilbo. He didn’t mope on the road like Dwalin did sometimes, wishing he was already back at the mountain with Ori. He didn’t make moon eyes and daydream like Kili and the elf. He told stories. He sang songs. He made friends with all of the soldiers and quickly became a favorite. 

Dwalin didn’t even know all of their names. They were half-loyal. Willing to leave Dain and the Iron Hills only because Thorin’s fortunes were good. Willing to follow wherever gold lead. Dwalin didn’t want to learn their names. Bilbo, on the other hand, knew who had families, children, and dreams for the future. The hobbit spent hours discussing plans for a music hall in Erebor with one dwarf. Dwalin didn’t know if the soldier was a musician or just wanted to own a hall. He didn’t care.

He did care about Bilbo, but the hobbit was very good at hiding his true feelings. Only once did Dwalin have cause to suspect that the little fellow was conflicted about their journey. Late in the night, as Dwalin kept watch, he saw that Bilbo was not asleep. Lying in his bedroll, the hobbit’s eyes were open, gazing at the embers of the fire. 

“Ridiculous,” Bilbo murmured aloud, so quietly that Dwalin could barely hear him. “He does not want me. He doesn’t.” 

Rolling over silently, the hobbit faced the dark of Mirkwood. Dwalin could see his face no more. Eventually his watch ended. Their journey continued. 

Then, at the edge of Mirkwood, Bilbo stopped his pony abruptly. His pointed ears perked up. The elf did the same. That was unexpected. The elf even signaled that she should go with the hobbit to scout. Fortunately, Kili wasn’t completely brainless. The hobbit went alone. 

The goblin raiding party Bilbo found only numbered seventeen. With advanced warning and Tauriel’s not-entirely-useless assistance, the dwarves took care of them in less than half an hour. Only one soldier was wounded, and that was barely a scratch. 

Dwalin got three. He might have been proud of that, if Tauriel didn’t beat his score by two. Even Bilbo got one, which cemented the warrior’s opinion of the half-loyal soldiers. If a goblin could get close enough to the hobbit for Bilbo to cut its throat, none of them were doing their jobs. 

It was an easy fight, though, and an easier journey overall. So Dwalin wondered more than a little why Bilbo kept looking up at the Misty Mountains with such an inscrutable expression. 

“That is the back door to Goblin Town,” the hobbit announced.

Dwalin squinted at the rocks. It might have been. 

“I see a crevice, yes,” Tauriel confirmed, “but it is farther away than it looks, Master Baggins. If these goblins came from there, they have been traveling three days at least. Steering clear of the place should be very easy, with the warning you have given us.” 

“Actually,” Bilbo said, “I was wondering if we might head in that direction.” 

Kili and Dwalin stared at him. The other dwarves were too in awe of the burglar to ask questions. 

“Are you suicidal?” Kili demanded.

“Mad?” Dwalin suggested.

“Master Baggins,” Tauriel began.

“No, no, no.” Bilbo waved a hand dismissively. “I do not want to go back to Goblin Town, thank you very much. A most unpleasant place indeed! I’ve had my fill of their hospitality, I assure you.” 

“Then what?” When Kili was confused, he looked a bit like a colt with a head injury. 

“The pine stand. That cluster of trees the goblins chased us to. Before the eagles came. I should like to see it again. Since we are so close. I may never have another opportunity.” 

Dwalin looked at Kili. Technically the young prince was the leader of this expedition. 

Kili shrugged. “Of course, if it means so much to you, Bilbo. We’ll keep an eye out for more goblins, but I’m sure they drew back to their town to lick their wounds after the battle and the loss of their kin.” Since Kili wasn’t a complete idiot, he did not act sure. Instead, he doubled the watch whenever they stopped to water the ponies or camp. 

Once the party reached the pine trees, Bilbo’s behavior only grew stranger. He insisted on gathering all of the wood for their campfire alone. Folk offered to help. Even Dwalin volunteered. Bilbo shooed them all away. Indeed, he kept at it long after sunset. The woodpile he built would last their little camp for a week. Dwalin wondered how long the hobbit wanted to stay in the accursed place. 

Of course, it might not be cursed in Bilbo’s mind. It was the site of his brave stand, defending Thorin. To him, it might not be the place where Thorin bled and fell to Azog. He might not remember how it was for Dwalin, clinging to a breaking branch, nearly falling to his death. Powerless, as Ori fell from the cliffside. Helpless, as Thorin faced the enemy alone. 

“Will you not tell us what you are looking for, Master Baggins?” Tauriel’s voice was gentle, calling from the fireside. It startled the shuffling, muttering shape in the dark. 

Bilbo jumped. Then shook himself and answered. “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing really. I knew it would not be here.” 

“What?” Kili asked. “Are you looking for something? I thought you were gathering wood.” 

“I am. Just wood. No sense getting our hopes up.” 

“Thorin’s shield.” For what felt like the thousandth time over the course of their acquaintance, Dwalin felt guilty for doubting the hobbit. Obviously he was looking for Thorin’s shield. There was no other reason to come to this place.

Tauriel coughed. Elves sounded ridiculously musical, even when they were only coughing. Still, it reminded Dwalin of one of those soft noises Bilbo made while trying to be polite. “I’m afraid, Master Baggins, that orc are well known for taking any weapons left behind by their foes. They twist the steel of others in the dark, and turn it to their evil purposes.” 

“My uncle’s shield was not steel,” Kili said softly. Taking the elf’s hand in an unseemly fashion, Kili told the story. The lad must have heard it from the cradle, a thousand times, and never tired of it. He told it unfortunately well. Dwalin no longer heard the prince’s voice as he saw the melee of Azanulbizar close in around him. Thorin fell beneath Azog, only to rise again, wielding the oaken branch. When all hope was lost, when the future shrank only to death in battle, Thorin lead his people from the brink of disaster. The oaken shield kept the last, greatest evil at bay. 

“And so he carried with him for years,” Bilbo continued, almost prosaically after Kili’s telling. “Until he faced Azog again in this place, and lost it defending us. I should have. Well. It would be nice to find it for him, if we can.” 

“We’ll search the cliffside in the morning,” Dwalin said. “Every dwarf will help.”

“As will I,” Tauriel promised. “Winter was long. The traces of your battle have been crushed by snow and washed away by spring rain, but if there is a sign of oak in this stand of pine, I will find it.”

In fact, as soon as the sun rose, Tauriel proved once more that there was some use in having an elf around. She scanned the surrounding area. She inspected some rocks clustered near the cliff’s edge. Cocking her head to the side, gazing into the distance, she said, “I think—”

That was as far as she got.

Springing to his feet, Bilbo raced across the clearing. Planting one hand on a fallen pine, Bilbo vaulted over it feet first. Once again, Dwalin was surprised by the portly fellow’s unexpected agility. The obstacle was as tall as Bilbo’s chest, but he cleared it without pausing. Skipping to a stop, the hobbit shifted the big rocks, clearly struggling with them. A hobbit might be fast, but he did not have dwarven strength. Finally, Bilbo came up with the shield, raising it to the light of dawn triumphantly. 

“Oh! Good work, Tauriel! Here it is! And barely a scratch on it!”

The little hobbit could not hold the shield in one hand for very long. Instead, he carried it over to the fireside cradled in his arms like a babe. It was the oaken shield. That fallen branch which Thorin kept after the battle, riveting and lacquering it to keep it strong. Apparently, the shield was stalwart enough to weather a winter without showing a single sign of wear. Thorin always did build things to last. 

Crooning and brooding over the shield like a mother bird, Bilbo paid no attention to his breakfast. In fact, he ignored all activity and conversation, other than occasionally looking up to compliment Tauriel again. 

Modest, for an elf, she blushed and said that anyone would have noticed it once the sun rose a little more. 

When the time came to saddle up, Dwalin wasn’t surprised to see Bilbo hesitate. 

“Actually.” If the hobbit was a dwarf, Dwalin would have thought there were hot coals in his boots. Bilbo kept shifting his weight, bouncing on his toes, and rocking back on his heels. But of course the dwarf could see that because the hobbit’s feet were bare. “You lot head on without me. I’m just going to nip back to the Lonely Mountain.” 

Kili stared at him. 

Bilbo blushed. Dwalin noticed he didn’t meet Kili’s eyes, either. “Thorin will be wanting his shield back.” 

Kili looked lost. 

“Good thought,” Dwalin said. “I’ll go with you.” 

“Yes, excellent,” Bilbo said, with all of the fervor of a drowning fisherman grasping at a lifeline. “It will be a good opportunity for Dwalin to see Ori again.” 

“I cannot send the two of you alone,” Kili said. Prince or not, twenty soldiers was more of an escort than Kili needed. In fact, Dwalin doubted his escort would number more than five if he traveled alone. Bilbo Baggins, on the other hand, had every protection Thorin could arrange. Kili wasn’t completely daft. He knew that. The prince also knew his duty to his uncle. “I’ll escort you back. We all will.” 

“Don’t be silly,” Bilbo said. “You must go to your mother in the Blue Mountains. We’ve made good time so far, but heading all the way back to Erebor at this point would add two months to your journey. At a minimum!”

Kili hesitated. His shoulders were tense and his posture tight. Any moment, he could leap into battle. Unfortunately, this problem could not be solved with bow or sword. No older brother or uncle was available to decide. If Bilbo and Dwalin encountered danger on the way back to the mountain and something happened, it would be Kili’s fault. For assuming a mantle of leadership when he was not ready, if for no other reason. Thorin would not forgive him.

The prince would rather cross the Misty Mountains alone than face that prospect. Anyone with sense would. 

“We could take half the escort,” Dwalin suggested, careful not to overshadow the prince’s leadership, or state the recommendation like a decision. 

Nodding, Kili relaxed a little. “Yes. Ten will go with you, and the rest can come with us. Or perhaps me. Tauriel, their way through Mirkwood would be easier if—”

“I am coming to meet your mother,” the elf said, entwining her fingers with Kili’s. 

Smiling up at her, the prince relaxed completely. Clearly the sight of her drove every other thought from his daft head. At least Fili was heir to the throne. Kili was far too silly for the job. 

Even without the elf, the way through Mirkwood was just as passable. Thranduil feasted them once more, teasing Bilbo that he need not make excuses to stay. Yet once again, they dallied for only three days. That was good. Three days was about as long as Dwalin could stand elvish music without killing anything. 

Bilbo got some silk from the elves. Ribbons, too. Or he spun them from thin air. Who knew what hobbits could do? In any case, he spent the rest of the way to Laketown tying and retying Thorin’s shield in the stuff. He must have wrapped twenty different ribbons around the thing, in all variety of colors. Dwalin had no idea what the different styles of bow meant to the hobbit. Clearly, it was a matter of significance. 

“If any of you squawk about this in Laketown, I’ll string your guts from the battlements of Erebor.” Warning the soldiers was only polite. A few looked cowed. Most looked earnest about not wanting to ruin Bilbo’s surprise. Dwalin still didn’t know all of their names. Bilbo knew them down to the granite in their bones.

He inspired loyalty. Like Thorin. The two were ridiculously alike, once you got past the surface. 

None of the soldiers spread gossip, but their party did stop a night in Laketown. Naturally, word of their return traveled ahead of them. The gates of Erebor opened without a challenge. Dwalin and Bilbo were welcomed home with great fanfare. Dwarves lined the streets. An honor guard in shining armor joined their complement of soldiers on the way to the throne room. 

It was too much. 

It was Thorin. 

The whole Company arrayed beside him on the dais, clad in their finest. Other than the two returning companions, only Kili was missing. Thorin sat in state, crowned with gold, dressed in silk, decked with jewels: every inch as great as any king of song or story. Next to his throne were two obviously empty places to stand. 

The sap. 

“Welcome!” He did not rise. Kings did not rise to embrace returning friends. That was probably his first mistake. “All of Erebor rejoices that you are returned to us. Rooms in the royal wing have been made ready for you both. My most honored advisors are home!” 

“Oh!” Bilbo did not smile. Dwalin was close enough to see the soft blush rise in his cheek. “I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m not here to stay. I just, well, I’ve a housewarming present for you. That’s all.”

Thorin’s expression shut like an iron grate. He did not show his disappointment. He did not show anything. He was a king. As regal and unmoving as any marble statue. That was his second mistake.

“Not just from me, of course,” the hobbit babbled nervously. “Tauriel was of immeasurable aid. Couldn’t have done it without Kili, Dwalin, and everyone else either. They were most understanding about my erratic travel plans.”

“A gift.” Thorin’s voice was polite. And colder than a storm off the Misty Mountains in winter. Then he made his third mistake. When Bilbo drew forth his heavy bundle, now wrapped in silver silk with six blue ribbons of various shades, Thorin let his lip curl in mild judgment. “Elvish cloth. The dwarves of Erebor make better.” 

Dwalin could have kicked him. Balin should have. He was close enough to do it. 

Bilbo’s face fell. He looked down at the bows, probably finding hobbitish faults with all of them. 

“I’ll take it.” Dwalin didn’t wait. Taking the shield from the hobbit’s unresisting hands was too easy. “A king is only handed things by his advisors.”

“Yes,” Bilbo said, not looking up. “Yes, perhaps you better.”

“Bilbo Baggins has my permission to approach the throne in perpetuity,” Thorin said, because he wasn’t a complete idiot.

“I shouldn’t have wrapped it, should I?” the hobbit asked Dwalin in a whisper. “I thought it was charming. I know better than to try to be charming. It always comes off poncy.” 

Dwalin scowled. At least Thorin wasn’t the only blockhead. They were well matched in faults as well as favors. 

Without ceremony, the warrior crossed the distance between the hobbit and the throne. Getting closer to Thorin than necessary, he tried to speak quietly. Criticising a king in public was treason. But Dwalin couldn’t let the halfwit keep making mistakes. 

“Listen to what Bilbo is telling you. Be yourself. He will na’ stay for a king.” 

Anger flickered behind Thorin’s eyes for a second. Then Dwalin released the weight of Bilbo’s gift. As soon as he held it, Thorin Oakenshield knew his property. For decades he carried that shield. Cloth could not hide it in his hands. The mask of stone broke. Thorin stared down at the elvish silk.

“How came you by this?” His voice was not the persuasive inquiry of a politician. Instead, it was the far more irresistible rasp of a friend. 

“Ah. That is to say.” Bilbo’s voice was so cowed. Yet he was no coward. “Well, as I’m sure you’ve surmised, I got it in Mirkwood. The Greenwood, that is. I’m sorry you don’t like the wrappings, but I wasn’t precisely spoilt for choice. A polite person might open the gift before criticizing.” 

Thorin looked up at last, turning to Dwalin. Dwalin planted himself firmly beside the hobbit. “How came you by this?” Thorin asked again. His voice was stronger, but it still lacked artifice. 

Dwalin could have smiled. He didn’t. Instead, he told the story. Without Balin’s gift for words, he could only do his best. “Through the dark of Mirkwood and up to the back door of Goblin Town, we traveled for many days, O King. When the Burglar Bilbo Baggins caught wind of foes lying in ambush against us, he stood by your sister-son and lead us to victory once more over the foul creatures of shadow and filth. By their joint skill, they kept the blood of our warriors safe. 

“Yet that was not enough for the Burglar. Against the wisdom of your sister-son, my own, and even the elf’s, he insisted on breaking from our path and traveling further into danger. While the rest of us camped uneasily in the shadows of the Misty Mountains and the path of Goblin Town, Bilbo Baggins searched every log and twig in a stand of pine well known to us all. The stand of pine where your Company met temporary defeat at the hands of Azog the Defiler. 

“After a whole day of searching alone, when sunset cast the wood in darkness and made his quest impossible, the hobbit confided in the rest of us. Then the elf was able to put her vision to good use, and told him how to retrieve his prize. Which he did alone. No hand but his has touched it since, and no other can take credit for returning it to you.” 

Thorin managed to meet Dwalin’s eyes for the first half of the story. Then he looked to Bilbo. His face was not the face of politician, though it would always be the face of a king. Dwalin’s king. Soft, hopeful, and full of determination. Dwalin didn’t look at the hobbit as he spoke, but he felt the little fellow growing taller at his side. He tried not to smile. 

Rising from his throne finally, Thorin strode forward. The shield in his hand was still wrapped in elvish cloth, but he gripped it firmly. Thorin was always battle ready. That was part of what made him worth following. He wasn’t a complete idiot, either. Another important qualification for kingship. Wrapping his arms around the hobbit, Thorin kissed Bilbo in front of the entire throne room. The Company cheered. 

Dwalin merely crossed his arms in satisfaction. 

Later, he received a similar welcome home in private. Apparently, Ori appreciated a well told story. Very much.


End file.
